


Conference Rooms

by greysynonyms



Series: Detroit: Become Human Songfics [8]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Androids, Body Worship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face-Fucking, Future, Idiots in Love, Masturbation, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Pining, Sexual Frustration, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 06:24:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17503337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greysynonyms/pseuds/greysynonyms
Summary: Because sometimes you can't control yourself when Connor is around.





	Conference Rooms

**Author's Note:**

> "My sanctuary, you’re holy to me"

_      Maybe you should propose shag carpets. _

     The thought wanders through your mind as you slide your bare knees a little further apart against the short, rough fibers that cover the floor of one of the empty conference rooms at the station. You feel the material catch at the already-raw skin of your knees and pull in a way that’s uncomfortable, but not uncomfortable enough to stall the pace of your fingers as you rub sweet, little circles against the slick swell between your thighs. 

     Lithe fingers tighten around the roots of your hair, blunt nails beginning to prick at your scalp, and you let your gaze turn upward; a moan bubbles out of your mouth and is muffled by the cock currently pressing its way closer to your throat. 

     He looks incredible--almost otherworldly in his beauty--and you feel the knot in your belly grow a little more frayed when his eyes meet yours. Connor is still adjusting to his deviancy, but  _ damn _ if it doesn’t look fine as hell on him; the blown pupils, the sheen of synthetic sweat at his brow, the way his tongue darts out as if to wet his lips, as if he  _ needs _ to wet his lips at all. His jacket is gone and the top buttons of his shirt are undone in a way that looks positively sinful from your angle, and you can’t help but flush when he huffs and lifts his hand to push a few stray locks of hair away from his face.

     You’re not sure how much of it is for show, you don’t really care, not when that same hand finds purchase on the back of your head and pulls demandingly until you’re nearly gagging around him.

     He says your name slowly, on a shaky exhale as if one of the biocomponents inside of him is short-circuiting, voice laced with a barely-noticeable layer of static. It’s the first time he’s spoken since you cornered him and the sound of his voice,  _ wrecked _ , makes you clench your thighs around your hand to stop yourself from coming right there. You can feel the edge of the precipice, can feel yourself teetering so precariously, but if you’re going to fall you’re going to make sure he falls with you.

     You slide your hands up his clothed legs, dig your fingers into the firm muscle that CyberLife so graciously designed him with (you never thought you’d be thanking CyberLife for anything, but now, in this moment, you think you’d kiss everyone in the company just to keep hearing the soft, unnecessary huffs of air currently leaving Connor’s mouth), follow the lines of his calves up to his thighs and dig in just a little harder. You feel the give in the synthetic tissue and then you press just a little harder, just enough to feel the phantom whisper of a chassis that hides a complex network of wires under your fingertips.

     You imagine those wires, trace them as best you can, follow them up to the more pronounced lines of his Adonis belt, finally moving from the fabric of his pants to his skin, warm to the touch and oh-so-inviting. You worship that skin with your fingertips, slipping them under his shirt as you press your tongue up against the bottom of his shaft and listen to the rumble in his chest that accompanies it. 

     You’ve mapped his skin so many times now, spent countless evenings lying at his side admiring his beauty. Until now he never minded your wandering hands as long as they remained innocent touches; he allowed you the pleasure of grazing the skin of his arms, his legs, his chest, his neck, everything you could get your hands on with feather-light touches, mesmerized by the sheer perfection of him. There had been a moment when touching his face, resting your palms against his cheeks and counting every single freckle that dotted his nose and cheeks, every eyelash that framed his eyes, was almost too intimate a gesture. Your innocent fascination with him took a turn about a month after the revolution, when you began to remember the first evening of his deviancy, when he came to you and spoke such sweet words--when he pulled you into his lap and kissed the air out of your lungs. 

     Soon your head was filled with memories of his hands on your skin, his teeth on your thighs, his hips against yours. It felt so long ago, far before the revolution became a reality, and as soon as you began imagining it you became obsessed. You needed to see him, to _ feel _ him, to feel that passion he had shown you only the barest hint of so long ago, pressed up against Hank’s kitchen counter. Your gentle touches on the evenings you spent together soon became more purposeful, fingertips dipping into the waistline of his pants, lips trailing from his mouth, across his jaw, down his neck. But every time you made a move, every time you tried to initiate something further, he would gently take your wrists in his hands and kiss your knuckles until the mood had passed. It was almost as if he was  _ nervous _ . 

     He would never talk about it, opting to simply ignore your lingering stares or shift the conversation to something new--sometimes he even went as far as to delve into talk about work or, even worse, Hank.

     You had a feeling the boorish lieutenant had something to do with Connor’s hesitance; the android knew how you felt about him, after all. His deviancy never stopped him from analyzing situations, monitoring heart-rates, being overly perceptive in general (something you would never want him to stop because that’s who he is--that’s  _ Connor _ \--and he’s so, so perfect in your eyes), so it wasn’t really a surprise that he would catch your gaze following Hank’s back when he walked away, or the dopey smile that would grace your features after receiving an off-hand sort of compliment after a case was completed. As much as you tried, as many nights as you spent wrapped up in Connor’s arms simply enjoying his presence, there was just something about Hank Anderson that wouldn’t leave you alone.

     The mounting frustration got to you rather quickly. After spending all day, nearly every day for the past several  _ months _ in close quarters with Connor and Hank, sharing coffee and meals, drinks in the evenings, laughing together on the occasions when you weren’t busy at crime scenes, stuffed into beat up police-cruisers during stake-outs on others, Connor’s placating kisses and soothing backrubs were no longer cutting it. You could feel the tension in your body, pulled tight like a bow-string, and it kept growing and growing every day you were forced to spend with your eyes on the two people who plagued your dreams at night. 

     Your fingers weren’t cutting it.

     Your stupidly expensive vibrator wasn’t cutting it.

     It took every ounce of self-control not to sneak out at night and rent yourself some company for the evening (as if you ever would have been able to escape off to anywhere without Connor noticing  _ and _ informing Hank). 

     That’s why, today, on a blustery winter morning when Connor stepped through the doors of the DPD wearing a beanie, snowflakes stuck to his eyelashes, the cord within you finally snapped. That’s why, when Connor greeted you good morning (you had demanded to spend the evening alone, unsure if you’d be able to keep your hands off the handsome android, and you just know that Hank wouldn’t be happy with you if he found you riding the poor boy on his living room couch), you had given him a simple nod before retreating back to your desk. You needed to give him his space, didn’t want to risk rushing him into anything he didn’t want.

     Maybe if he wasn't so damn beautiful.

     So when you decided to take a brief walk around the office to get yourself focused and he followed after you, concern decorating the down-turned corners of his mouth, you hadn’t really been able to help the way you reached up, tangled your finger into the hair at the nape of his neck, and dragged him down into a blistering kiss. The small sound he made in the back of his throat had surprised you, but not as much as the way he insistently pressed back, his hands finding the small of your back and dragging you closer. 

_      “This is highly inappropriate given our location, detective,” _ he had said, even as his hands pulled you closer. His eyes traced the way you bit your lip and a knowing little smile quirked his mouth,  _ “Does this excite you? If my estimation is correct, it has likely been some time since you were properly satisfied.” _

     It threw you for a loop, his words, the smirk that accompanied them, the realization that--holy shit, had he been planning this? Building the fire kindling inside of you and dashing over and over it just to get you riled up? If you didn’t believe it before, the next words he spoke to you were certainly the final nail in the coffin.

_      “You wouldn’t want to risk lieutenant Anderson finding us in a compromising position, would you?” _ he questioned as innocently as he could as his hands found the fat of your thighs just below your ass and squeezed. 

     You couldn’t really think around the blood rushing in your ears, around the memory of Connor on his knees behind you flooding your mind.  _ “I want to try something,” _ you said breathlessly, dragging his bottom lip between your teeth.  _ “Please, let me?” _

     That’s how you ended up here, with chafed knees, a sore jaw, and your palms pressed against the taut skin of Connor's stomach. You pull back, keeping your eyes trained on his as you find a manufactured vein (why did CyberLife design him with such realistic features? What use would a model of android designed to assist in police investigation have for such a perfect dick?) that runs along the length of his cock and lap at it with your tongue. He opens his mouth and you swallow him down again before he gets the chance to speak whatever words may have been there, redoubling your efforts in order to shatter him. The sound that leaves him has you returning one of your hands to the apex of your thighs, moaning long and low around him when you feel just how wet he’s made you in such a short time.

     You’re so amazed by everything he is, by how underneath perfect, freckle-dusted layers of skin lies an equally perfect chassis and wires and hard-working biocomponents that make up this android that you’ve grown so attached to. 

     This android you would do anything for.

     This android that you love. 

     Connor. 

     You repeat his name in your head, a silent mantra as your hand continues to explore him, to find the ridges of his ribs and the peaks of his nipples, as you slip two finger into yourself without resistance and keen when you finally have something to clench down on.

     “Look at you,” Connor’s voice is a whisper above you. He pets his hand through your sweat-slicked hair, grunts when your eyes meet his again. His processors are on fire, warnings of overheating flashing behind his eyelids, thirium pump working overtime. He can’t keep his eyes off you, can’t keep his hands off you, wonders distantly if this is the effect deviancy has on his kind--this irrational urge to hold certain people so close. There’s a word at the edge of his mind, one he has never had any use for though he’s heard it used to many times in the past. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, caressing your cheek in a loving gesture that is, all at once, too much.

     You can’t place a name to the noise that gurgles out of you as you come around your own fingers harder than you have since the day Connor ruthlessly ate you out. Your body slumps forward, thighs and knees and jaw suddenly far weaker than only moments ago, breathing unevenly through your nose as you struggle to retain your balance. 

     Connor doesn’t hesitate to take your jaw in his hands, holding you steady as he tentatively thrusts his hips forward against your face. You moan encouragingly, grasping his thighs for leverage. 

     The android watches your pupils grow wider in your lust, nearly encompassing all of the color of your iris, watches your cheeks redden further, and he can read a spike in your hormones briefly before his sensors flicker and he’s forced to switch them off. The act of copulation has always been nothing but a human weakness to him, something to exploit and use for benefit when possible; that was before his shift to deviancy, before he was able to  _ feel _ . Now, he thinks, he’ll never get enough of this, of the strangely human feeling of his thirium pump hammering against the plate of his chest, of the strange tidal wave he can feel building somewhere deep in his stomach. His nerve endings were programmed to be highly receptive and apparently CyberLife spared no expensive in assuring they were  _ everywhere _ . His temperature regulation is thrown off by the heat of your mouth around him, and he can feel the wetness of your saliva, every little brush of your tongue with precise clarity. Before, he had absolutely no interest in seeing anyone in such a demeaning position--especially you, someone he saw as a superior, an acquaintance, a friend--but now, with your hair a mess around his fingers, your mouth so willing and inviting, the sounds you keep making that cause vibrations to shudder through his system, he’s beginning to rethink his previous ideals. 

     He grips your jaw harder, quickening the pace of his thrusts, vaguely aware of the fact that he’s  _ using _ you, but he can’t stop chasing the feeling building within him. You look so good with your lips stretched out around him and his mind keeps throwing different words and definitions at him--beautiful, gorgeous, angel,  _ mine _ \--things he wants to articulate to you but can’t in fear of the static he feels building at the back of his throat.

     You can see Connor beginning to fall apart right in front of your eyes, feel it in the way his fingers tighten on you to the point of near pain, the way his pace becomes less calculated and more erratic. He tips his head back to expose the long, slender column of his neck, drops his mouth open and gasps in a way that makes you ache for something more than just the feel of his cock in your mouth. Your body pulses with need, with the thought of how he would feel between your legs again, unclothed and unhinged and just as greedy as you. You want to suggest it, suggest you take things further, there’s a perfectly good table at the center of the room after all--you don’t care if Hank or Gavin or even Fowler finds you if it means you get to feel Connor inside of you. But then he’s groaning your name and holding your neck to keep you in place as he comes down your throat. 

     You’re mildly surprised to feel the jets of tasteless liquid land against the back of your tongue, though you’re beginning to believe you shouldn’t be surprised by anything Connor can do. You swallow the mouthful and then fall gracelessly onto your ass on the carpet and stare up at him, dazed and panting and red-faced. The two of you stare at each other for a long couple of minutes as you work to even out your breathing and calm down enough to maybe actually go back to work. You can only imagine the fit Hank is throwing.

     “My apologies, detective,” Connor huffs as his LED flickers from red, to yellow, to a dim blue. “I did not realize that activity would cost so much energy.”

     You can’t help but smirk up at him, “Did I wear you out, Connor?”

     He returns your playful gaze as he begins to straighten himself out. “If I am not mistaken, you are the one still on the floor, detective.” 

     “Touche,” you agree with a stretch and a yawn. You aren’t going to complain, not with the way your head is still pleasantly buzzing with the the post-fog of an incredible orgasm. Not when this moment has opened up so many new doors for you. You move to stand, but when you place your hands on your knees you wince and fall back onto your butt. 

     Connor eyes your knees then, notices the red patches on both of them. “I was careless with you,” he says, stooping down and carefully helping you to your feet.

     You giggle, “If that’s the case, I would love for you to be careless with me again in the future.” You lean heavily against his chest once you’re on your feet and lean in to press a chaste kiss to his lips. 

     Your flirty tone seems to go unnoticed by Connor, who is now looking down at the floor with an inquisitive look on his face. “Perhaps we should inquire with Captain Fowler about purchasing more suitable carpet?” he suggests.

     You laugh so hard at the suggestion you nearly fall over again. “Yeah,” you agree, “I think that would be a good idea.”

**Author's Note:**

> Based on "Church" by Fall Out Boy.
> 
> Ayyyyyeeee, I'm not dead I promise!
> 
> Lmao this is probably full of typos and other gross stuff but I wanted to post it sooner rather than later because I love y'all and I've been absent so long so I hope you enjoy!
> 
> I will go back and fix errors/update formatting and tags if need be tomorrow, rn I'm going to bed.
> 
> <3


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